


redemption

by prettiestsailor



Series: lessons of elysium [1]
Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Depression, Friends to Lovers, Internalized Homophobia, Jealousy, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mythology References, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Self-Discovery, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Unrequited Love, not with Asterius though lol don't worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:36:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29754171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettiestsailor/pseuds/prettiestsailor
Summary: Theseus had been a great man.This much was indisputable. In the most literal sense, he had been to hell and back in his lifetime. He had slain all manner of beasts, attracted the favour of the gods, ruled over Athens, bringing it to ever higher heights of glory. Undoubtedly, he had achieved greatness. He was a hero. He was a great man.But he was not a good one.
Relationships: Asterius | The Minotaur & Theseus (Hades Video Game), Asterius | The Minotaur/Theseus (Hades Video Game), Referenced Patrochilles
Series: lessons of elysium [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2197074
Comments: 12
Kudos: 85





	redemption

Theseus had been a great man.

This much was indisputable. In the most literal sense, he had been to hell and back in his lifetime. He had slain all manner of beasts, attracted the favour of the gods, ruled over Athens, bringing it to ever higher heights of glory. Undoubtedly, he had achieved greatness. He was a hero. He was a great man.

But he was not a good one.

This, he was aware of, acutely. When first he arrived in Elysium, this was what he spent his days regretting most of all. Of course, there was no denying that he had thoroughly met any kind of requirements for a lifetime in paradise. He was a hero. In fact, he had swiftly taken up the mantle of ‘Champion of Elysium’—it should have been Heracles, he thought bitterly. Thank the gods for his apotheosis.

Theseus’s life had ended… unceremoniously. In spite of his achievements and his successes, his subjects did not exactly seem to have infinite love and patience for him, to say the least.

For that reason, fighting in Elysium’s central arena for the benefit of his fellow exalted shades gave him a feeling of being loved that had been missing in his life. Day-in, day-out, he put on a show for them, easily defeating lesser adversaries in battle. The crowd cheered endlessly. They chanted his name. They sang it.

It was not enough.

They were cheering for someone who was _great_. But they did not know—could not know—of how much he was lacking in terms of _goodness_. And it would never be enough, for he was loved for being something he was not.

He spent a lot of time thinking about the past.

Ariadne was the first person who had ever really loved him. That was when Theseus was young, when he kept his hair long, when all he wanted was his father’s approval. Aegeus had been distant—absent, of course, for all of Theseus’s childhood. When Theseus sought him out, Aegeus eventually grew wise to Medea’s plotting, falling short of poisoning his son. Beyond that, he showed him little love.

Theseus’s early exploits were largely for the benefit of his father, then. If he were great enough; if he were heroic enough, then surely he could win his approval. Surely then he could earn his love.

That was what had motivated him to travel to Crete as a young prince. Athens had been facing a problem. Year after year, young men travelled to Minos’s kingdom, to put an end to their rivalry. None had ever returned.

Theseus did not feel particularly discouraged knowing this. He knew how to fight—his first journey to Athens had proved that much. So had the numerous fights he’d been involved in since, as had the creatures he’d slain. Whatever was awaiting him in Crete, well, he was prepared.

But truth be told, he wasn’t so concerned by the prospect of not returning, either. He had fought since boyhood to see his father—only to find his father was not all that interested in him, despite Theseus being his only son. What, then, did he really have to live for?

When Theseus and his men arrived in Crete, they soon came to understand why no Athenians had made it back in one piece. King Minos had a stepson, of a sort: the Minotaur; a creature who was half-man, half-bull, who was contained within the Labyrinth, an impossible maze crafted by Daedalus himself. None had ever defeated this Minotaur in battle, and doing so would be the only way to bring an end to the ceaseless deaths of any Athenians who ventured to Crete.

Well, that was his fate decided, then. If Theseus were to defeat the Minotaur, surely then he would win his father’s love. If he were to be defeated, then that would be that.

That was when he met Ariadne. Her love for him had been immediate; disarming, even. Never had someone hung on his every word the way Ariadne did. And he supposed he enjoyed her company. She was certainly beautiful, aesthetically speaking. He didn’t fall for her, not in that immediate way she had for him, but he was sure that would come in time.

It was Ariadne who led him to the Labyrinth, giving him a red string that would help him retrace his steps and escape if he were to be victorious in his battle. As she stood at the entrance to the Labyrinth, she looked at him with large, brown eyes that were full of hope and innocent. It was an expression that pained him.

“If you succeed, Prince Theseus,” she said, “you will marry me, won’t you?”

“Of course I will,” he said. He saw no reason not to. “Of course.”

He took a deep breath as he looked into the abyss of the Labyrinth, clutching the string. How strange that Ariadne would be so willing to aid Theseus against her own flesh and blood—her half-brother. But, Theseus supposed, he was an only child. He would not know what it was like.

The Labyrinth was all but unnavigable. Making it to its heart was, in itself, one of the greatest challenges Theseus had ever taken on—which was saying a lot. Red string crossed over itself as he traced and retraced his steps, desperate to make it to the Labyrinth’s core.

That journey looked like child’s play the instant he set eyes upon his foe. The Minotaur was strong, bulky—his strength was evidently superhuman. He wielded a labrys—a double-edged axe, like the ones painted all along the Labyrinth’s walls—and wore a weary expression. Theseus had never seen such darkness on the face of another. And he had never seen another so magnificent.

They fought. It was the most fraught battle of his life. He started out with his sword, but it soon lay bent on the ground. He moved on to use his club, but its force was pathetic compared to the strength with which the Minotaur spun his labrys: like it weighed nothing. Like it was effortless.

“A valiant effort so far,” Theseus said—the first words he had spoken since entering the Labyrinth. He did not like the way his voice faltered. “But what is the use in fighting with such weapons? Is that a true show of strength? I suggest we forego them and have it out with only our own god-given ability. Does that not seem fair?”

Truth be told, the idea of fist-fighting the Minotaur was not the slightest bit appealing, but he was in imminent danger of being decapitated if he did not think of _something_.

The Minotaur grunted and dropped his labrys to the ground. Theseus was shocked. It understood? It was willing to concede to him?

They fought on. Theseus was sure he was done for. In truth, their abilities were equal, on the whole. The Minotaur excelled in strength; Theseus in technique. If the fight had happened a thousand times, he would have lost five hundred of them. His victory was sheer luck.

As he lay dying, Theseus could have sworn that he heard the Minotaur _thank_ him.

He breathed deep and sat with his dying opponent for as long as he could allow himself. And then, gathering his bearings, he followed Ariadne’s thread out of the Labyrinth.

Ariadne herself was overjoyed to see him. They married before he left Crete. When they slept together, he stroked her hair and kissed her, but he could not focus. He could only think of her slain brother.

They departed for Athens. Theseus felt a cavity in his heart. He could not stop thinking about the Minotaur—the worthiest opponent he had ever faced. He slept next to Ariadne, but he had no love for her. He knew this. She did not.

“I cannot wait to see Athens,” she told him. Her eyes were ever-bright. If Theseus squinted, she reminded him ever so slightly of the Minotaur. It was not enough.

Theseus ordered his men to stop over in Naxos. He took Ariadne by the hand and led her off the ship.

“It is beautiful here,” he said, and then let her go. “I am sorry, Ariadne.”

His depression deepened as his crew set sail again. He had not loved Ariadne, and he could not bear the thought of taking her to Athens with him; of one day ruling with her as his queen. What was he supposed to do?

In his heart of hearts, he knew that abandoning her was not right. But he did not feel that he had a choice.

He had been ordered, on his departure from Athens, to fly a white flag on his return if he had made it back safely, but he was too despondent. They arrived, black sails flying, and Theseus learned that his father, Aegeus, had taken this to be a sign that he was dead, and drowned himself.

And so he had loved him after all.

Theseus was crowned king. He cut his hair and named the sea after his father. He remarried: another Cretan princess, Phaedra, who was also the half-sister of the Minotaur. He could never escape that great transgression he had committed in slaying the Minotaur, not least because the Athenians saw it as his crowning glory. Their marriage was cut short by Phaedra’s untimely death.

Then, he met Pirithous, son of Ixion, who was adulterous and irreverent and stunningly handsome. Theseus hung on his every word. What he felt for him was something he had not felt for Ariadne, nor for Phaedra, nor for any of the concubines who vied for his favour when he became king.

Pirithous was always scheming. He had a mischievous grin that made Theseus’s heart race, and he always had a glimmer in his eye when he suggested that they embark on some ridiculous mission together.

Most of these missions involved women—seducing them or courting them or, on a rare occasion, kidnapping them. Theseus didn’t care. He would do anything for Pirithous. They would each choose a girl to sleep with and do the deed at the same time. Theseus’s mind was never on the girl—instead, he would look at Pirithous, watching his face contort with pleasure and wishing it were he who elicited those sounds from him.

Whether Pirithous knew the depth of his feelings, Theseus could never tell.

“Let us travel to the underworld,” he said one day, “and I shall take Persephone as a wife.”

Theseus laughed. Pirithous laughed with him, but then rebuked him.

“I joke not, Theseus. If I am to produce a worthy heir, I will need a worthy wife, will I not?”

And Theseus agreed to it. Like he would agree to anything Pirithous said.

That didn’t go so well, as it turned out. The pair found themselves trapped in the Underworld, which was, truly, not an ideal situation by any stretch. Theseus imagined he would soon be sent to Tartarus and forced to live out eternity with some degrading punishment.

He was beyond gratitude when Heracles freed him, and quickly returned to Athens. He never saw Pirithous again after that.

The rest happened quickly. Theseus’s life was devoid of meaning. He had never loved anyone who had loved him, and those he loved—for there had been two—had not loved him. He had glory; he had power; he had wealth. He was lacking that quality of essential fulfilment—eudaimonia. And so it did not matter what happened to him.

The Athenians’ patience with him wore thin. Theseus was an extravagant but apathetic king. He could not blame his subjects for resenting him. He fled to escape the wrath of Menestheus, who led an uprising in Athens, but Lycomedes had found him and pushed him off a cliff.

As he fell to his death, Theseus accepted it. It was probably what he deserved.

The Underworld was a different prospect as a resident than it had been as a visitor. Theseus was apprehensive as he arrived at Elysium, recalling his past exploits with Pirithous, wondering why Hades had spared him from eternal torture. But Elysium brought him outer peace. Inner peace could perhaps come later, or maybe it would never come at all.

That was when he had time to reflect on who he was; on his actions. Had Theseus ever done a good thing in his life? It was hard to say. His treatment of Ariadne had been cruel. His apathy towards Phaedra’s death had been, too. He reflected on his negligence towards his children and his callous attitude towards the lovers he had sought; his apathy towards his subjects in Athens and the way he had driven his father to his death.

Had anyone ever been grateful for Theseus?

A chill washed over him, or what was left of him. The Minotaur had thanked him.

The Minotaur. Was the Minotaur in Elysium? They were equals. No, they were not equals. The Minotaur was greater than him. So where was it? Where was he?

He met with Hades which, admittedly, was presumptuous considering their history. But it seemed that Hades understood. This puzzled Theseus. He had incurred the wrath of Dionysus through his abandonment of Ariadne and, well, Poseidon had never been his biggest fan, and he had absolutely given Hades reason to distrust him. But Hades listened to his petition.

“The Minotaur is in Erebus. Bring him to Elysium if you wish,” he had said, plainly and nonchalantly.

Was this a perk of being a hero? Of being a champion? Theseus didn’t understand.

“Lord Hades,” he said, “I humbly thank you. But I wish to know—why have you accepted my request so graciously? I have… I have caused you trouble, in the past.”

“It was not you who caused me trouble,” Hades said. “Now go, before I reconsider.”

Theseus was smart enough to listen to that, at least.

The Minotaur was easily found in Erebus. He was hard to miss, for one. But Theseus also felt drawn to him. In spite of the way the Underworld’s chambers shifted and changed constantly, he found his way to the Minotaur with ease. It reminded him of following Ariadne’s thread.

The creature was every bit as spectacular as Theseus had remembered, but this had never been in doubt. It was simply overwhelming to lay eyes upon him. Theseus was overwrought with emotion.

“The Bull of Minos!” he cried out, rushing over to the Minotaur, whose eyes widened upon spotting him. “My, you have not changed at all, have you?” It was a ridiculous thing to say. They were shades. They did not change. “I have come to bring you to Elysium.”

The Minotaur snorted in incredulity.

“If you come with me, I will be eternally grateful. And I do mean eternally!” Theseus said, and paused. “By any chance, do you have a name? I do not wish to refer to you simply as the Minotaur.”

The bull shifted uncomfortably. After a moment, he grunted, “Asterius.”

“ _Asterius_ ,” Theseus said softly—or as softly as he could manage. “Well, Asterius, I know our first meeting was rather unusual indeed, and I do understand if this does not interest you but—would you care to come to Elysium with me?”

“Why me?” Asterius asked.

“Why you?” Theseus repeated. “Why you? Why anyone else, my friend? You are simply the most worthy opponent I ever faced in my life, and I do not wish for you to live out the rest of eternity without the glory you deserve. If I deserve to be in Elysium, why, you certainly do too!” He added, lower, but still gently. “And would you deny this to the King of Athens?”

He held out his hand, expecting no response. Asterius hesitated and took it.

In Elysium, under Ixion’s light, Theseus saw Asterius more clearly than he ever had before. He found himself transfixed by the Minotaur’s beauty—his extraordinary strength and his gentle face. But equally, he appeared neglected. His fur was matted, and his mane was tangled.

“Asterius,” he said, still taking delight in being able to know him like this, in being able to wrap his lips around the creature’s name, “if you please, I would like to wash your mane.” He was surprised as he said it. He had asked for much in his life, but he had seldom spoken his true desires.

Asterius, too, seemed surprised. He paused, reflecting on Theseus’s request, and eventually nodded.

Theseus took great pleasure in washing that mane, in running his fingers through it and unweaving its tangles. It reminded him of the long hair he had in his youth. He dared, his fingers shaking, to massage Asterius’s scalp. His breath hitched. It was a new experience to him, doing as he truly pleased. But he held back, not wishing to take it too far.

When it was all done, he sat with Asterius and watched it dry. Many of the mortal realm’s annoyances, such as wet hair, were greatly mitigated in Elysium. The mane was shining in a matter of minutes.

“It looks beautiful, Asterius,” Theseus said, but then his stomach dropped. Like he had revealed too much. “Ha! I merely meant to say—it is my handiwork that is beautiful, is it not? For one who excels in battle, I have surprising talents in the realm of grooming, also.”

Asterius snorted. “It is so, king.”

Theseus did not know how to respond to this. He anxiously shifted from foot to foot. He looked down at his hands. Though he was someone who sought praise so hungrily, he did not really know how to accept it.

He had a second bed put in his chambers for Asterius—a bed fit for a hero, with an ornate frame and a thick mattress stuffed with wool. As a shade, there was no need to sleep, but Theseus liked to anyway. He hoped that Asterius would too.

The more they spoke—or rather, the more Theseus spoke to Asterius, drawing out longer and longer responses each time—the more he learned of just what a deprived life he had led. Constrained in the Labyrinth, he had never seen the sun. He had never tasted fruit either, being fed only human flesh. Theseus felt pity for this beautiful creature. He did not understand why he had been forced to live in such squalor.

And so, he made a point of making it up to him in the afterlife. Crates of fruits—or rather, phantasmagorical approximations of the real thing—were set up at the entrance to the colosseum. After every battle, Theseus picked out a few to introduce to his friend (if it were not too presumptuous to call him that). In their chambers, he watched as Asterius ate pomegranates and grapes and figs, noting which ones he enjoyed the most and bringing him more of them next time.

“Asterius,” he said one day, after a fight in the arena, still panting and covered in sweat as he sat in his chambers, “I wish for you to fight with me.”

Asterius looked at him, confused.

“You are stronger than I. The crowds will love you, should you accept my request. You deserve the glory that I enjoy as champion—and I wish to share it with you.” He smiled, brightly, but beneath it he felt vulnerable.

“I am a monster,” Asterius said plainly, like it carried no emotional weight. Like it was just a fact.

But it was not a fact.

“Nothing could be less true, Asterius,” Theseus said. “I will not rest until you see otherwise. It breaks my heart that you do not see your own greatness.”

Asterius paused and let out a breath.

“All right. I do this only for you, king.”

The smile that now spread across Theseus’s face was truly sincere.

He had a labrys crafted for Asterius: one even grander than that he had wielded in the Labyrinth. And then, they trained together, sparring against each other. As Theseus had always known, their abilities were matched. And though he always hungered for victory, he somehow did not mind when he lost to Asterius.

When they took on challengers in the arena, sometimes Theseus would get distracted, watching Asterius out of the corner of his eye. He loved the way they worked together. In his life, he had mostly fought alone. Teamwork was foreign to him, but he found that with Asterius, he _liked_ it. When he heard the Minotaur’s name on the lips of the crowd, it lifted his own spirits.

Of course, there was life outside of the arena to think about. Even in Elysium, Theseus was not loved by all. In particular, there was mutual disdain between him and Patroclus, the Myrmidon, who, no doubt, saw him as a blustering, arrogant show-off, if his raised eyebrows and snide remarks were anything to go by. Theseus, on the other hand, found his brooding _deeply_ irritating.

In truth, there was more to it than that, though. He resented how unreservedly Patroclus loved. They were not so different in age—Patroclus had fought alongside Nestor, who had known Heracles—and yet Patroclus openly, unapologetically loved Achilles. Theseus had heard that, in death, their ashes were mingled together. He thought of himself—he had been unable to give his heart to any woman, even those who loved him dearly. And yet he had fallen so easily for Pirithous, and, in the first place, even more easily for Asterius. He wondered what his father would have thought if he’d known this. Indeed, he wondered what the people of Athens would have thought.

Was this secrecy—this inability to comprehend himself—the thing that had failed him? The reason he had not known how to be a good man?

When one was killed as a shade, they disintegrated into a flutter of otherworldly butterflies, to be reconstituted safely elsewhere. Theseus had seen this happen many times, watching endless heroes fall to his spear. It did not affect him. Death in the Underworld was illusory.

Yet, the first time he saw it happen to Asterius, his heart sank. They had been fighting a group of soldiers: jumped-up Achaean warriors who had been vanquished in the Trojan War. Their technique was impeccable, and their battle rage was still fresh. It was easy to misstep. Asterius’s defeat was not a matter of inadequacy.

Theseus stood mesmerised as he watched the Minotaur’s form break off into thousands of butterflies. The sight was spectacular, but heartbreaking. It reminded him of the Labyrinth, of their fight to the death. This was perhaps the single event that had most changed the course of Theseus’s life.

With renewed attention, and unquenchable anger, he took up his spear once again. The fight did not last much longer. That would show those blackguards.

He arrived back at his chambers. Asterius was there.

“My friend, what a relief to see you again!” Theseus said. He was overcome by an urge to throw his arms around Asterius, to hold him and protect him from all harm. It was ridiculous. He played with the House of Hades insignia on his chiton, desperately trying to keep his hands occupied.

“I am sorry, king,” Asterius said. “I have brought you dishonour.”

“What?” Theseus said he walked closer to Asterius tentatively. “Friend Asterius, you could never dishonour me. You are worthy to stand beside me in battle, and you will be, always. Do you believe that those fiends bested you? Ten of them assaulted you at once, and you would call that a fair defeat? I would bring dishonour to myself, for the things I would do to avenge you.”

“That is not necessary, king.”

“Asterius,” Theseus said, smiling softly. “You need not call me ‘king’. We are brothers-in-arms, and you are my equal. You always have been.”

Asterius looked contemplative, almost vulnerable, but he gathered his thoughts and spoke. “I wish to call you ‘king’.” He admired the way that Asterius spoke—so plain and direct, never an extraneous word. Theseus, on the other hand, said everything except for what he truly meant.

“I shall not stop you, if that is your wish,” he said and chuckled gently. They stood in silence for a moment, until Theseus spoke again. “My friend, I—when you, just there, it—it reminded me. I am sorry to dredge up the past, but I wished to ask you something.”

Asterius looked on wordlessly.

“You thanked me, back _then_. I simply wished to know why,” he said. Ever since he left the Labyrinth, the memory had haunted him.

“It was an honour to die by your hand. I was grateful that you freed me.” Asterius explained it simply. Theseus felt his heart fill with sadness.

“I am glad that you are free, my friend. And I am sorry that your path to freedom was so. Please know—I will do anything in my power to make your afterlife a glorious one.”

“You have already done so much for me, king.”

Maybe so, but it was not enough.

The spoils of battle were one of the biggest perks of Champion status. Theseus and Asterius accumulated bottles and bottles of ambrosia, but they had not yet drunk from them—Theseus had felt nervous about proposing they share one. The act seemed innately intimate.

But their chambers were a mess. Walls were stacked with ambrosia which threatened to topple over at any moment. This, at least, gave him an excuse. He suggested the activity to his friend, and next thing he knew, they were lying side by side by the Lethe with two bottles of the stuff.

When they had brought a bottle each, Theseus did not have any justification for sharing them one by one. He did not try to explain that part, merely picking up a bottle and holding it in front of Asterius’s face.

“My friend, I think you deserve to sample this first,” he said, pulling out the cork and handing it over. Asterius took it gently. Theseus could not tear his eyes away as Asterius drank. In his blue chiton, glugging the ambrosia, he was resplendent. “It brings me great joy to see you like this.”

“Like what?” Asterius asked, handing the bottle back. Theseus drank from it, feeling the warmth on its neck from Asterius’s lips. He savoured the sensation.

“To see you so relaxed,” he said. Ambrosia, he quickly learned, took effect rather quickly. The warmth he’d felt from the bottle soon spread throughout his entire body, bringing him a state of calm. “Asterius, have I ever told you that you are magnificent?”

“You have not,” Asterius said, shyly, but he did not flinch.

“I have often thought it,” Theseus said. He moved over just a little, bringing their arms just shy of touching. His heart was in his throat. He passed the ambrosia back again.

Asterius did not move away. “Thank you, my king,” he said, accepting the bottle once more. _My king_. Theseus had never been Asterius’s king in any sense. He had never ruled over him. And so what was the meaning? But Asterius never misspoke. It must have meant something.

His heart pounded even harder. He knew that there was one sense in which he was Asterius’s king, in that he would give himself to him entirely. He would surrender himself entirely to Asterius, who had his heart.

But he would never be able to bring himself to say this. This was a feeling he would have to seal away, like so many others. It was a feeling he had been sealing away for a long time by now, anyway.

He changed the topic, bringing himself back to less perilous waters by recounting some of his adventures during his life. Asterius listened intently, the way he always did.

This became a habit of theirs, and the stacks of ambrosia that cluttered their chambers mercifully dwindled over time. Theseus loved fighting with Asterius. He loved the way they worked together, the way their bond was so manifest in the way they acted with complete unity.

But what he loved even more was the quiet afterwards, when they lay by the Lethe or sat in their chambers and shared ambrosia. Theseus would talk, as he was wont to do, about his mortal life, or the heroes he had met, or the stories he had heard in the past. Asterius did not speak much, but he listened with care and presence that made Theseus feel whole.

And, for a time, he nearly forgot about who he had been in the past, and he nearly forgot about the fact he would never have his love reciprocated, because spending time with Asterius like that brought him greater happiness than anything he had achieved in his life. It was not enough, but it was close.

But then the daemon came along.

The daemon— _Zagreus_ , a name which Theseus knew but would never debase himself by speaking—was astonishingly haughty for one born of hell. And yes, he was the son of Hades, but Theseus never had to acknowledge that, not when his fights against him and Asterius were a result of his desire to escape his father’s realm.

His mockery of the Champion was detestable, and it was _deeply_ satisfying to wipe the smile off his face the first few times he faced Asterius and him. But he grew stronger, and eventually he defeated them. And then did so again. And again. And again.

Before the daemon’s arrival, Theseus had not experienced that strange death in the afterlife. He found that he did not enjoy it at all—it felt like a loss of control, perhaps worse than the strange acquiescent feeling that overtook him when he died as a mortal. No, when he fell to the daemon, he felt himself panic, like every part of his being was begging him to stay alive. Even knowing it was impermanent, he could not bear the thought of dying.

After their defeats, he would pace the chambers, ranting to Asterius.

“And—and he would be _nowhere_ without the Olympians! Did you see him today, Asterius? He had the blessings of _five_ gods on him. How can this be fair? The gods aid me one at a time and yet that blackguard brings almost half of the Pantheon along with him every time?” he said one day—or probably many days. His complaints about the daemon were endless.

Asterius would always be more measured, however.

“Do not worry, king,” he said “he is not as strong as we. If we continue our training, we can defeat him with ease.”

Theseus stopped pacing and walked over to Asterius, taking his hands in his own and offering him a warm smile. “Oh, my friend,” he said, “you are right, as ever. We shall defeat him through the power of our great fraternal bond.” The word ‘fraternal’ stung as he said it, but it felt like a necessary qualification when Asterius’s large hands were in his own and he was desperately trying not to imagine how they would feel around his waist.

“We will, king,” Asterius said in reply.

But that did not come to pass. Of course, there were times when the daemon was underprepared and was easily defeated, but these occasions grew fewer and further between. Even when Asterius, of his own accord, met the daemon earlier in Elysium with the hope of weakening him, he still defeated them.

Theseus was delighted when Hades ordered the Champions to take extreme measures in their attempts to thwart his son. He and Asterius donned matching armour and acquired new weapons—Asterius a lighter axe that could be swung with greater ease, and Theseus a Macedonian chariot—but the daemon learned to overcome even these obstacles.

If that was bad, what came next was even worse.

“I dreamt of the short one,” Asterius said one day, speaking of the daemon.

“Ah, no doubt a dream of us vanquishing him once and for all, is that right, my friend?” Theseus grinned.

“That was not it, king,” Asterius said, “I dreamt of him, and a great hero from another time or place. I know not what it means.”

Theseus’s face fell. “Do not concern yourself with such things, Asterius. They are surely meaningless.” Why couldn’t Asterius dream of him, instead?

But Asterius had not listened to him. He had told the fiend all about the dream and, to add insult to injury, mentioned that this hero had eventually become _friends_ with the beast he fought.

Theseus was furious.

“Are you trying to tell me that you would befriend him, Asterius? That you would put that daemon ahead of our bond?” They sat by a tree in Elysium, but Theseus would not face him. He felt Asterius’s hand move towards him, and he flinched. “Do not touch me.”

“King, this is not rational,” Asterius said. “I do not intend to befriend the short one, no. But even if I did, he would not come between us.”

Theseus crossed his arms and huffed. “What would you know about ‘rational’, Asterius? Do you think that I ruled over Athens with my ‘irrationality’? Brought men into line through a sheer lack of reason? No, I think it would be best if you said no more on the matter, for you insult me so.”

Asterius leaned away, and Theseus felt the air cool around him. He was filled with panic.

“My friend, wait,” he said, and he turned around. “I apologise. I did not mean to be so rash. We are both greater than that daemon, no? And so I shall banish him from my thoughts.”

However, that proved more difficult than he had first imagined. The daemon continued to challenge them in the arena, his face contemptibly smug. Every time Theseus could wipe that look off his face, even for an instant, he was pleased. But he was not enough of a fool not to see what was happening. That daemon was luring Asterius into one-on-one combat and poisoning his thoughts with notions of forming a team together. Theseus could not tolerate it.

He told the daemon as much. The daemon laughed in his face, and Asterius said nothing. And then, that fiend told him—openly—that there was no good reason for Asterius to put up with him.

This became Theseus’s singular focus. It filled him with a renewed rage against the daemon, which, on the positive side, gave him slightly more energy in battle. But, afterwards, he spent his time alone, thinking about how _foolish_ he had been. He should have seen the inevitability of this. He sulked in a hidden corner of Elysium, thinking about this, reminding himself just a little bit of the snivelling Patroclus.

It had been his father first. He had felt a bond of love with his father, before he had even met him, and that was what had spurred him on to journey to Athens. Through all of his adversity, he kept in mind the singular thought that he would see his father and he would be _loved_. But that love never came, not freely, not revealing itself until it was too late.

And the first time he had met Asterius, he had felt _something_. Perhaps it was not love, not yet, but it was something. Long after their fight, Asterius remained in his thoughts. It had been pathetic, in retrospect.

Next was Pirithous, who had positively charmed Theseus. He had charmed him into the most absurd and reckless acts, all of which Theseus did keenly, following him like a puppy. But Pirithous did not love him. In fact, the more Theseus reflected on it, the more it was clear that his own love had been obvious. The more it was clear that he had been exploited.

So why should Asterius be any different? Maybe Theseus couldn’t be loved the way he desired. Maybe he was defective in some infernal way and ought to have never been so foolish as to fall into the trap of thinking otherwise. He was in love with Asterius. Even thinking it filled him with a stinging bitterness. Perhaps he ought not even blame the daemon so much after all. Perhaps, in the end, it was his own fault, for being so fundamentally inadequate. But it was easier, outwardly at least, to blame the daemon.

He found that he could not sleep. This was not important, physiologically, but it meant that, while Asterius slept, all he could do was lie and watch him from his own bed. For hours he watched him as he slept, serene and still and completely _exquisite_ , and he thought about the fact that he would never be able to do what he foolishly thought he might: to lie beside him, run his fingers through that thick fur, whisper his adoration to the other.

At times he wept, crying silent tears that left his eyes red and raw and pained, but he washed his face with ice cold water and prayed that nobody would notice. He could not allow anyone to see what a pitiful wretch he truly was.

Asterius mostly left him alone, but, probably startled by Theseus’s uncharacteristic silent treatment, eventually spoke to him.

“Is this about the short one, king?”

“Do not speak of him,” Theseus said, snappily. “I do not wish to hear you talk about him.”

Asterius sighed. “We cannot resolve this if we do not discuss it.”

“What is there to resolve, _Asterius_?” Theseus asked. He spoke the name with a newfound venom. “That hellspawn deserves no respect, nor even acknowledgement, from me. He is but a vile creature of the darkness.”

“If that is so,” Asterius said, “what does that make me?”

“Oh, come on! You would compare him to yourself? It is obvious that you do not understand just what a fiend that _creature_ is. And you would suggest that his situation is anything like yours? Do not make me laugh,” Theseus refused to make eye contact.

“He is simply a worthy rival,” Asterius said.

“Well, if he is so worthy, why not go train with him instead? Why not let him take my title, hm? I shall no longer be Champion of Elysium, if that is what you wish, if you truly believe that that _blackguard_ is so _worthy_.”

“Once again, king, this is not rational,” Asterius said. It was the first time Theseus saw him truly annoyed. They seemingly unanimously decided to ignore each other from then on.

The only time they acknowledged each other was in the stadium, when they faced the daemon. Even there, they kept things curt. Theseus no longer warned Asterius to be careful or to watch himself. He surely did not need it.

Their technique suffered. The daemon defeated them even more easily than before. Theseus was filled with depths of rage and loathing that he did not know were possible. To think, how easily he would be discarded and thrown aside in the name of this despicable excuse for a god. His body, in its shadowy form, quivered with anger that could hardly be contained.

After a frankly embarrassing defeat, he prepared a crate and started to fill it with his possessions. He could not continue like this. If that meant no longer being Champion, then so be it. He would leave Asterius and watch himself be replaced, just as he expected. He thought this as he folded chitons and ambrosia bottles and trinkets from the gods, which he stowed away.

He started, once again, to cry. He could not contain it. This was always bound to be his fate, was it not? It was as though he lived in some twisted version of Tartarus, where he was cursed to be hateful and unloved for eternity, where every so often he would foolishly think he might break that spell only to be proven wrong and humiliated once again. He heard footsteps behind him, and sniffled.

“I am leaving here, Asterius,” he said, unable to hide the shake in his voice. “I hope that pleases you.”

A hand was placed on his shoulder. “It does not,” Asterius said behind him.

Then Theseus truly broke down, convulsing with sobs. He spun around clumsily and buried his face in Asterius’s chest. “My friend, I do not truly _wish_ to leave you. It is only that I _have_ to.”

“You do not,” Asterius said, arm wrapping around Theseus, stroking his back gently. “Why do you think this?”

“Our bond,” Theseus said. “It has been severed, and I know that if I do not leave you, then you will soon leave me. I would rather it did not come to that.”

The hand stroking his back paused for a moment, contemplatively, and reached up until Asterius was running his hands through Theseus’s hair.

“Does this comfort you?” he asked.

Theseus felt as though he could not speak. He leaned into Asterius’s touch. Asterius seemed to understand.

“Then I shall continue,” he said. “It comforts me when you touch me like this.”

“Asterius,” Theseus said. He thought of the times he washed Asterius’s mane, as he had when they had first come to Elysium together.

“Our bond is not severed, unless you wish to sever it,” Asterius said. “And if you do not wish to sever it, please do not say these things.”

“Asterius,” Theseus said again, his tears slowly subsiding as he relaxed into Asterius’s touch. “I do not understand. Do you not wish to leave me?”

“Never, king.” Asterius said, leaning down so that his head rested on top of Theseus’s. “Theseus. My king.”

This made heat course through Theseus’s body. He wrapped his own arms around Asterius. “Dear Asterius,” he said. “I must apologise to you, profusely. I have indeed been irrational, as you say. I should not have doubted you.”

“That is true, you should not have,” Asterius said. “But so long as you understand now, then it does not matter.”

They stood like that until the last of Theseus’s tears had dried up. And, after that, he finally felt that he could sleep.

Finally, they truly reunited in battle. With renewed confidence, he proclaimed the strength of their bond to the daemon, declaring that he and Asterius would fight together “now and always”. And, annoyingly, he saw a glint of something in the daemon’s eyes—relief? or even _pride_?—and could have sworn that the fiend went easy on them after that. Either that, or he had forgotten just how well he and Asterius fought as a team. Like two parts of a whole.

For the first time in a while, they won a bottle of ambrosia and, well, it was only right to lie by the Lethe and drink it together, as they had done before any of these complications had come into their afterlives. Theseus rolled onto his side.

“We have eternity together,” he said, “and yet, if I devoted every moment of that eternity to the task, I still would never be able to find the words to tell you just how beautiful you are. I wish to tell you things like this more often, and then perhaps I can one day come close.” He smiled fondly.

“You do not need to flatter me like this,” Asterius said.

“It is not flattery, my friend,” Theseus said, lying once again on his back, “it is merely the truth.”

Asterius’s hand found his, brushing against it, asking permission. Theseus wove their fingers together.

“You are beautiful too, king,” Asterius said. “I have always thought that.”

Theseus felt warm. But then he felt cold.

“I was not a good man, Asterius, when I lived,” he said. “If I have deceived you on that front, then I must apologise.”

“You have always been good to me, king,” Asterius said.

“I was not good to your sisters, you know. And I was not good to any woman who loved me, nor to my children. And, in truth,” he said, “I was not always so good as a king, either. That is why I was still somewhat young when I came here.”

Asterius stroked the back of his hand with his thumb.

“You say we have eternity,” he said. “Then does that not give you eternity to make amends? You still have the capacity to be good, Theseus. You have shown me that.”

Theseus lit up. “You are right, Asterius,” he said. “And how many times in all of eternity will I be lucky enough to hear you say my name?”

“As often as you like,” he said.

Theseus rolled onto his side again. “Turn to face me, Asterius.” Asterius rolled over too, and then they were looking into each other’s eyes.

“Asterius,” Theseus said, his booming voice reduced to a whisper. Their hands remained together. The phantom of his heart was racing.

“Are you all right, king?” Asterius asked.

“Yes, it was just…” Theseus trailed off, suddenly shy. “The way you comforted me before—would you do it again?”

Asterius’s free hand reached up into his hair, massaging him once more.

Amends could start small, Theseus decided, and where better to start than with one who resided in Elysium?

Patroclus had become cheerier in recent times—somehow, he had been reunited with Achilles—but he remained quiet and brooding and contemplative. However, maybe he was not so bad.

“Patroclus, son of Menoetius!” Theseus called to him as he found him standing pensively in his usual chamber.

“King Theseus,” Patroclus said, his voice soft and calm as the Lethe. Theseus approached, noting Patroclus’s height and his gentle presence. Though younger than Theseus, he carried himself with a quiet maturity.

“I merely came to tell you this: though we have our differences, I must acknowledge your greatness and honour! I apologise for any ill-feeling between us.” He grinned and extended his hand.

Patroclus looked bewildered, but shook it. “That is all right.” He paused. “What is the occasion for this?”

“Nothing at all, my fellow soldier! I simply wished to extend my feelings of goodwill towards a fellow Achaean.”

“Ah, I see,” Patroclus said. “Right, then.”

A satisfactory outcome. Though they were unlikely to become close friends, Theseus was happy that the air had been cleared. That was just the first of a long list of people to whom he felt he should apologise, but it was a start.

He recounted this to Asterius later, as they lay in their beds, his heart soaring with pride when Asterius congratulated him.

“He is lucky to have the Champion as an ally,” Asterius said.

At this, Theseus got out of his own bed and did what he had longed to for an age: he got into Asterius’s and lay facing him.

“My dear friend,” he said, “you are so reverent towards me. Do you know that you need not be?”

Asterius slung an arm around his back. “It is not that I feel I need to be. It merely pleases me to show you the respect you deserve.”

“Asterius,” Theseus said, flashing him a smile and then frowning. “I wish to apologise again for my conduct, when it came to the daemon. I did not trust you and I ought to have.”

“It is forgiven, king. Think nothing of it.”

“I want to be a good man for you.” The words tumbled out of Theseus’s mouth before he could think about them. There was a moment of silence between them.

“I was not good, in life, either,” Asterius finally said, plainly.

“But you… I…” Speech failed Theseus. Instead, quivering gently, he leaned in and placed a kiss on Asterius’s exposed chest, gasping at the feeling of his soft fur. Then, he moved up and placed a kiss higher, on his collarbone, following it with a trail of lighter ones.

He withdrew and looked up, wide-eyed, vulnerable. This was the first time he had ever quite so unambiguously revealed his love to another.

Asterius moved Theseus with ease, pulling him up to eye level. He removed his hand from his back and rested it to the back of his head, coaxing him closer. Theseus kissed Asterius, and the sensation was intoxicating. It was not like kissing someone who was fully human—there were obvious anatomical differences—but the pair made it work, their mouths negotiating until they moved as one.

Theseus withdrew and looked at Asterius. He moved one hand up to cup his cheek.

“I love you, Asterius,” he said. It felt so right to say it. And just to be able to express the depth of his feeling was enough—would be enough to sustain him forever.

“I love you, my king,” Asterius said, and the unexpected confession filled Theseus with a feeling of levity that was entirely new to him.

He smiled so widely that it hurt. “Have you felt this for a long time?” he asked, pulling back and resting his head in the crook of Asterius’s neck.

“I have,” Asterius said. “You have brought me out of darkness and shown me the most radiant light.”

“Ah, but my beloved,” Theseus said, nuzzling Asterius and placing gentle kisses on his neck, “you have done the same for me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This emotionally destroyed me!
> 
> Just wanted to say a few things. Yes, 'eudaimonia' is an Aristotelian concept and therefore comes literal centuries after Theseus would have lived. Please don't come for me I know this is terrible. Same thing for the whole concept of 'irrationality' which is referenced a few times, and I _believe_ comes from Pythagorean mathematics which again was, like, a few centuries after all of this. Oops!
> 
> I had a lot of fun playing with different interpretations of the myths here and I ended up basically choosing the versions that best fit my personal understanding of why Hadesgame Theseus is Like That.
> 
> Anyway I cried a bunch of times while writing this but hopefully our king can continue after this fic on his journey of personal growth. 😇
> 
> Follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/prettiestsailor) if you like!


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